


When They Came Together

by Cantarella (Jack_R)



Category: Dracula Untold (2014)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 00:48:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2527814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jack_R/pseuds/Cantarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is simple like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirena

**Author's Note:**

> When he asks her to love him, she does.

I. Mirena

His first love is Mirena.

(Lean pale limbs tangled between rich carmine of sheets, she smiles softly and the air is full of cinnamon and honey, her golden hair forms a delicate halo above her head, his heart skips a beat and in the moment, thousands of saints all chant and praise her name, as she is his salvation and he will be her downfall.)

(He loves fiercely and savagely and the sun inside him rages like a wildfire, it could – it will - set entire kingdoms ablaze, but when he traces his fingers down her back, he feels nothing but endless wonder and unsullied joy of a child. When he asks her to love him, to face the flames, she does, for if he is the flame, she is the ocean, calm and soothing yet a force of her own, so different from him and still the same. )

(He thought that nobody could ever welcome an abominable being as he was – Lord Impaler, the hideous one, the crippled one, the broken one. But she reached to him and took all of him, the good as well as the bad, the sorrow, the disillusions and the hope and made it all hers. And the world may know her as the Vlad’s wife but, as a matter of fact, he was hers and no other way.)

It is simple like that.

xxx

Mirena dies and for the first time since he was but a child, he is truly alone.


	2. Shkelgim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He grows lonely.

II. Shkelgim

Vlad dies, too.

He comes back, but he is broken, lacking something what made him something more than a beast. He walks the night and he drinks mead with the taste of copper and he no longer laughs nor smirks nor smiles. He may appear alive, but inside he is dead and rotting, a walking corpse who no longer pretends to be human.

His wife is dead and his son rules in his stead, surrounded by fools and idiots and old men and traitors and wolves, who would see him fallen - his legacy is cursed, they whisper in dark, dusty chambers and plot against him. He fears for his boy, now that Ingeras is the only thing left of him. He cannot aid him no more, since he is dead man and a demon hereto, but he watches over him from a distance. And if the young prince ever wonders about the number of bats, who took a liking to live in his presence, he does not show it.

A man may loathe what he has become but he will never hesitate to use it to his benefit.

He is a pitiable parody of the Lord himself, revived to walk the earth once again, but he brings death and suffering instead of salvation and his father is the Devil himself. And if the Lord’s followers were holy, his are the terror made human, and he drinks the blood of his own people, not the other way.

And so it be.

xxx

Although the legend does not speak of it, he also somehow acquired a dubious company on the way.

Shkelgim is baffling being. The gypsy is the shadow that trails behind him when he comes out of his sanctuary and the dutiful steward that obeys every single one of his master’s wishes, but he is also a defiant being who opposes him when he behaves unwisely and a vicious adversary to everyone who dares to cross paths with him. The prince observes him, amused by his absurd character and, even if he conceals it, slightly amazed.

He would gladly embrace solitude, but then, he is a no fool and although he pretends to be displeased and offended by gypsy’s mere presence, he does not dispose of him. For he may be the monster the villagers tell tales of, but when the sun rises, he is helpless and he must rely on his queer servant to guard him when the past comes hunting after him.

They stay in Wallachia. After all, where would they go? It’s cold in the north and in the south, the Osmanian Empire stretches far and wide, and even though he drove them out of his land after all, he knows better than to hope that they will never return. It may take decades, but they will come, slowly devouring the weak and when they do, he will be here to stop them. After all, it’s his land and he will protect it.

He knows better than to feed on the villagers – it is too soon for people to forget and although he is not afraid of them, he despises the possibility of revealing himself to them. After all, he is the monstrous abomination, a nightmare made flesh, but now, he can pretend to be a hero, a martyr who sacrificed himself to save them. It is the only thing that protects his heir and he won’t be tempted by the matters of blood to risk his safety. 

He finds other way.

Where Mirena tasted like honey and mead, sweet and intoxicating, Shkelgim is iron and red pepper, saline and distinctively fiery and if he would first spit it out, disgusted by the intrusive taste, he slowly comes to appreciate the slow burn. It is not as suggestive and immediately appealing as his wife’s, but more of a uniquely refined taste that he comes to enjoy.

The gypsy does not mind – he gives in easily, his body soon covered in small cuts in various stages of healing. He stares in ecstasy as his master feeds, enthralled by the pain and, as the prince soon realises, slightly aroused. It makes him wonder. Perhaps, he thinks, I am not the crippled one here.

Slowly, he comes to understand his peculiar companion. The gypsy yearns for power – he is drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He is desperately envious of his master, he longs to become something more, and yet, at the same time, he feels no malice towards him. Such a puzzling sentiment, the prince ponders.

Months come and go, the world turns white and green and gold and red and then white again and he lives, in spite of his desires. He visits Mirena, every day, then every week, then every month. (His son sometimes comes, too, but he has a land to guard and people to care for. And now, there is a girl. The bats would not dare to disturb them.)

He grows lonely.

Shkelgim notices and when he offers him comfort, Vlad does not refuse.

Afterwards, he hunts down a young woman with light hair and distinctively familiar eyes. Her screams are pleasant to his ears and when he drinks, he feels nothing but satisfaction. He laughs in grotesque cheeriness, the moon is high and the air is clear and somewhere far away, an antique creature closes its eyes in delight.

Xxx

They get used to each other. 

Years go by, his son grows older, he marries a girl and they have children. His family is safe – he will see to that. The graves of the fallen are slowly forgotten, old men and women tell tales about Vlad the hero and children laugh at their foolish stories. 

The land slowly recovers and the prince with it. (The gypsy helps, a little.)

It is simple like that.

Xxx

He does not transform Shkelgim, in the end. The gypsy begs and demands and whines and pleads and bribes, but he does not yield. He has destroyed enough lives. He feels no need to consume another.

(And if he sometimes dreams of dark eyes and wicked grin, it is none business but his own.)


	3. The Old One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He does not feel powerful or dark, no more.

It takes a long time for them to meet again.

He stays in Wallachia for years, watching over his offspring and tending to a growing number of graves. Mirena’s simple and elegant, all lean lines in pale marble, vaguely resembling his dear lady. His grandchildren and great-grandchildren have forgotten about it – it is hidden deep in the mountains, where they parted their ways. He sweeps the leaves off and polishes the faded whiteness of the tombstone. It calms him.

Shkelgim he buried in the forest, not so far from the place they first met. It takes him a long walk to reach it, but he does not mind. His is but a few stones piled up, vaguely resembling a cairn and interwoven with tendrils of ivy. No crucifix or a name either – he knows that the gypsy would not care for it. 

Ingeras and his wife were laid down to rest in a cathedral down in the lowlands. He visited them only a few times – there is too much of holy crosses for him to feel entirely comfortable and he trusts the monks to care well for his son. No loger a boy, he passed away as an old man, surrounded by his numerous children and grandchildren, his wife waiting for him on the other side to guide him. He does envy him, just a little – but mostly, he feels grateful that his son lived a full, meaningful, _human_ life.

He will never meet his grandchildren – there is a plenty of them, Ingeras took care of that. Nevertheless, he watches over all of them. Bats become their favourite pets and trusted confidents, and as they grow up, they drift away to sleep listening to flapping of leather wings. The boys are strong and wise and they grow into capable rulers, brave warriors and fine fathers. The girls are kind and fair and they grow into sharp advisors, dutiful ladies and caring mothers. 

However, one of them runs away to become a hedge knight. Vlad is not surprised.

His family grows and his legacy is passed on, first as a recent history, then a myth, then a children’s tale. The whole Wallachia knows the story of Vlad the Impaler. Sometimes, he sits near the fire and he listens to the slow flow of the words and if occasionally disagrees with some details, he lets them slip. It is not his tale to tell.

He stays in the mountains, lost and aloof with only loves of his past to keep him company. The monastery, where he built his den, is now abandoned and feared by villagers. They tell stories about a dark power hiding in the ruins, waiting for thoughtless wanderers.

He does not feel powerful or dark, no more. He grew too weary for such nonsense. 

(Sometimes, he thinks about a stake and wonders how it would feel in his heart instead. Sometimes, he dreams of sunlight and being burned to ashes. And sometimes, he imagines the dull glow of silver and the smell of sputtering flesh.)

He waits.

His prediction comes true. Osmanian Empire returns, a sweeping force of uncountable, united in the name of the sultan. Where they go, chaos and death follows, the villages are burned to the ground and little boys once again fight wars with real swords. His people resist couragely, but in the end, they are once again forced to bend their knees and bind themselves to the emperor. He does not mourn. Such is the course that the history takes.

(And if many of the foreign soldiers get lost in the mountains and never come back, this is nothing he has to care about.)

Once the dust settles down, he leaves his land behind. The heavy rumble of the Turkish tongue is alien to him and the prospect of new settlers heading for the mountains makes him nauseous. He bids farewell to the modesty of white marbel and harsh edges of stones and pompous sanctity of the cathedral. They will wait, that is not what he fears.

He heads for the north.

Xxx

He wanders far, through mountains and fields and cities and countries wide and he belongs to none of it. The world does not seem large anymore, for he has all the time he could ever need, and he learns that the Earth is not flat, as he once thought and he learns that people are always the same, no matter the tongue they speak, the way they dress and the colour of their skin and hair and eyes and he learns that there are more like him, strange savages who long for blood and forgot how to speak long ago. 

These ones, he kills. The world does not need more of them.

And, after some time has passed, in a faraway land, he meets the old one again.

Xxx

He looks different.

He still remembers the cave and the way the air seemed to suffocate him in there, and the slippery dampness of the rock and the wetness of mould on his lips and the nauseous smell of things long dead and rotting. It was a foul place, full of illness and corruption and the creature that resided there was one of these things that were born to haunt many dreams.

Now, he wears the face of a lord and holds himself as a man of honour would, but he cannot trick the prince. The monster knows him as well and he laughs merrily as their eyes meet each other.

“Oh, little prince, long time no see, isn’t it what they say?”

Xxx

The creature dubbed himself his father and to say he is disgusted would be a gross understatement. He snaps, for he once had a family and this is nothing but repulsive desecration of his past and the monster laughs at him, amused by his anger and as he grips his chin and whisper into his ear, he cries bitter tears and the wall he build around himself out of mourning and grief comes crumbling down.

“Shhh, don’t you weep, my dear foolish child. You and I, we are going to have so much _fun_ together.”

Xxx

He adjusts, in the end.

The old one may not kill him, for he would welcome death as an old friend, but he can make him suffer with precise sentences and other things. The first time, he stays with him for long and whispers sweet words filled with venom to him and the prince clenches his teeth and says nothing.

His creator lets him have his hatred and his disgust for what he has done and he laughs when the prince throws tantrum like an unreasonable child, for this is what he is to him – a mere youth, naïve and foolish, full of absurd human emotions, unable to let go. And he is a child, compared to his silent companion, who has lived through centuries till he turned old and gray. He reminds prince of statue, unmoved and still, merely amused by the silly realm of mortals.

But he learns from him. He detestes himself, but he learns and the other one is pleased, very much so.

Xxx

And slowly, the centre of gravity shifts a little and then they collide and hold on each other after the clash. And the anger and guilt may be consuming both of them, body and mind and soul alike, but they never let go, not quite.

It is simple like that.

Xxx

Decades go by and they meet again, and again, and again, always apart and never parted, for they are family, they are of one blood and one kind. He may despise the other one to the point of utter resentment, but when the shadows grow long and the void comes reaching after him, and the world is empty and grey, they will seek out each other and rejoin once more.

It is not love, for Mirena has usurped all of him long time, and it is not solace, for Shkelgim has given him all he needed and more, but it is anger and loneliness and fear and bitterness and want and destruction and when they came together, the earth has moved out and away from under them.

And so they walk together through centuries, a man who never allowed himself to become a monster and the other one, who embraced all of the darkness and made it his.


	4. Mina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things were meant to be.

III. + I. – Mina

He finds her, in the end.

(And her hair is short and boyish, revealing the sharp line of her throat, and she is slender, all pointed angles and long, lean lines, leaving behind the rich bouquet of cinnamon and honey as she walks down the street, graceful, delicate. His breath hitches as he struggles to believe and it feels so different but _right_.)

For some things were meant to be.

(She is his light to guide him, and when the night falls and strange creatures abandon their burrows to take part in the Hunt, she will hold his hand, kiss him on his forehead and lift a lantern high. And then, they will walk the night together, and no monsters will dare to cross their path.)

Some were not.

(The air is especially chilly tonight and they both know that the winter will come up here to the mountains soon. He is sated and well, the flames are reaching up hight to the night sky and just for a moment, he does not pretend that the warm body next to his own belongs to Mirena.)

(The wine is heavy and sweet, leaving him just a little more than dizzy and the diva on the stage spreads her hands, his companion laughs, I think you’ve had enough, little prince, and as her voice ascends to the highest notes, familiar warm lips softly brush his own.)

(He lives.)

He does not regret any of it.

_fin._


End file.
